Crossed stars
by witchfingers
Summary: (Real World AU). It's 1999, London, and a twenthysomething guy called Sirius Black is reading a book because, what are the odds, it's about a guy that's called like him.


_For Liss :D Long live the fuzzy feelings!_

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 _London, 1999_

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There's a book he's reading.

It's called 'The Prisoner of Azkaban' and he borrows it from a friend of a friend, only because one of his dorm buddies left one morning for work after informing him that 'dude, this book I'm reading, there's a character there called like _you'_.

And he _may_ have been intrigued.

Ha. And what are the odds, it looks like he's the villain, he thinks, skimming through the first chapters of his borrowed friend's friend's book (he's a fast reader)… and then he's hooked, kind of, wanting to know more about this other-him, and… Ah. Oh. No. Would you look at it- "his" character, it's actually the misunderstood tall-dark-handsome save-the-day guy who's seen better days.

Oh.

Autobiographical much? What are the odds.

He wonders if he'll ever cross this lady author Rowling on the street by chance. He secretes a picture of her face (one that showed up in the newspaper one day when they interviewed her for the next book she's writing, the fourth of a series, apparently), and memorizes it, and keeps a vigilant eye when he goes out grocery-shopping, when he goes out to rent a movie, when he meets up with his pals for an after-work beer.

Never once crosses the lady author, but well, London's big. And surely she lives in a nice part of town, and he derisively entertains the thought, maybe he should go visit his folks, play some bridge, diss the liberals and the migrant workforce to indulge them, and sneak a peek around the insufferably posh neighborhood where he grew up.

Or maybe he should get his head back on his shoulders and let go of the fact that someone wrote a character that's called like him, talks like him, had a best pal James who died in an accident, and can turn into a big black herald-of-death Grim whose description matches verbatim that of his beloved childhood dog, Padfoot. Which, by the way, is another blatant coincidence.

Give it a break, Sirius, he tells himself- it must happen to other less fortunate people too anyway.

Mind over matter has him talking himself out of the piqued-interest business. Dismisses it as some 'isn't life weird' thing.

But years go by and he becomes best pals with a guy named Remy who teaches Self-Defense in a private institute who owns a Chihuahua, 'Moony', (oh, how the mighty fall) that goes barking-crazy during the full moons and never lets Remy sleep. And book after book is published of this suspicious Harry Potter series, which he refuses to read on because he just _knows_ that at some point such a badass character like "his" is bound to die (and he does die, he reluctantly learns from his friend's friend). They even start making movies out of the book (and he's not sure where he stands regarding the actor that eventually plays "him").

And one day, the last book in the series comes out. The seventh, of course. He surmises the hype will calm down now, and he'll be eventually able to go through life normally again, without having to endure The (confused) Stares of people whose mental math doesn't add up because he was born _after_ the books, clearly, so how come he's called Sirius ( _Orion_ , mind you) Black for real?

Bugger if he cares. For all he knows his dad lost a bet to a friend of his who was an astronomer… Well, that's his favorite story to tell, at least. Sometimes he goes with 'it was foretold to my mother by a toothless gypsy woman', or 'ever since the Middle Ages, the firstborns of my family have been named after celestial bodies' (and then he diverges into an epic made-up tale about "his great-uncle Uranus"…).

But anyway. It is after the last book is published that the eerie things start to happen, and he begins to meet people he just somehow _knows_. Might've they also read the books, like he has? Might've they realized too that some whatever woman-writer knows their personalities, too? He thought he'd ask the cashier at the grocery store whose tag reads _Peter Pettigrew_ , but he found himself tongue-tied. Because, what does he ask? ' _Buddy, you into rats and double-crossing?'_

Nah.

No, he buckles up and holds his peace until he crosses a Snape in a football match with his work colleagues, when he loses it because _ugh_ , actually honestly just because he can't stand his _face,_ but he does the sane thing and ends up calling him out on his unnerving football saves and not because, ugh, what a prick, with that stupid hair and broody eyes, and definitely _not_ because they're supposed to be fictional nemesis. Come on.

A "James" he meets one night in passing in a ratty bar, sighing over a worn-out story about the redhead lady that stole his heart, but he doesn't get too caught up because in his life, in _this_ life, there's no James. "His" James died many years ago, anyway.

Maybe he's losing it.

Heck, if anyone came to _him_ with this shit, _he'd_ laugh and say they're losing it. But he has to bite his tongue more than often, because he finds himself more and more short of spilling his guts to Remy, just to _know_. Even more so after he learnt Remy's actual, honest-to-goodness name is Remus.

 _Remus_ , really?

Really.

For the thousandth time since his thoughts went that way tonight, he sighs, and tightens his black leather jacket around his body. It doesn't keep the cold from seeping out into the unforgiving Scottish night.

It's Saturday evening and it's raining, but Aunt Minnie's legendary scones were worth the trip, the chill, the cat hairs on his black clothes, and the boring train ride back to London.

There was someone already waiting for the train at the station when he arrived, but for a long while he prefers his thoughts over the company of the scrawny kid in the oversized pullover. But when his thoughts start circling the regret he felt at not having tried to keep in touch with that James from the bar, he resolves that an interlocutor will be good for his peace of mind.

'Aren't you cold, kid?' he asks, casually.

The 'kid', a thin teenager with shadows under his eyes, fixes him with a nonplussed stare. 'That's a creepy thing to ask out of the blue'.

'In summer, maybe', Sirius comments, 'Tonight, however, it's not a moot question.'

The kid snorts, but wearily. 'If you're the kind of guy that goes around offering free hugs, no thanks, not interested.'

A low chuckle escapes Sirius' lips. 'If I were _that_ kind of guy I reckon I wouldn't be asking.'

It's the kid's turn to chuckle, though Sirius notes it sounds like he's tried to hide it. 'Just, I was gonna go get coffee or something. Come on along, 20 more minutes waiting for the train out here's deadly, and I'd rather not go alone'.

The kid studies him unabashedly for a while, weighs him, Sirius practically _sees_ him thinking do I go or do I decline. In the end, he sighs and nods.

'And why the hell not.'

'Indeed. Though I must say I lied,' he discloses as they easily fall into step, towards a dimly lit cafeteria inside the station 'I've no interest in coffee. I was thinking more that it's a night for hot chocolate, tonight.'

The kid looks up to him and smiles weakly. 'You're weird.'

'I'm Sirius, and no pun intended,' he says with a twinkle in his eye, giving out his hand for the kid to shake. And the kid shakes it.

'I'm Harry,' he says, quietly.

Sirius smiles fondly. 'I know,' he says, and forgets all about that James he could've met.


End file.
